


Death has the Final Say

by TimelessTragedy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Changing the Timeline, Death as a character, Gabriel is stubborn, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 07:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11157249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimelessTragedy/pseuds/TimelessTragedy
Summary: He was a fool.She had claimed he had a purpose, it was why she tore his string and left him as Death in her place. That purpose was gone, he believed, for he had lost all that had made him himself. Trapped in a world of strings, he searches, tampers, and learns, until one string returns him to the life he'd left behind.It seems that some things never change, for he is still a fool.





	1. All of Life, a Web

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kenwave and a friend who isn't on the site for beta reading.   
> All mistakes are my own.

It was a web, stretched thin and made of little threads that overlapped and tangled; colourful, ever changing, no two threads the same. It was fascinating to watch the whole thing shift as if tugged and pulled this way and that.

The whole network was wondrous, and yet none of the threads could see what an amazing thing they belonged to.

None of them but him; its protector.

He floated along beneath it all, his black thread among the mass frayed and splintering. It curled lazily around his waist, tying him loosely to the rest as he moved beneath the web like a ghost to observe the threads he knew the best.

His fingers curled around one that glowed a pale blue, cold and once much more vibrant. It hummed beneath his touch, and as he followed it back towards its beginning, he received flashes of a life not his own; he saw a boy aiding his father, a scythe in hand as he was taught the old way of how harvests were done. He saw him as a teenager leaving behind the life he had known for another. He could see his own face, their threads entwined as the boy made a name for himself in a world wracked with conflict and chaos.

He let go of the thread, following it instead toward the other end, past the splintering of his own weak lines. He found the end of it and it made him frown, playing with the torn end, the predetermined end of a life. It didn’t exactly seem like a pleasant way for it to end.

He reached for his own thread, pulling the break to him. He saw the young, tired face of the Death before him brandishing the sleek silver scissors now hanging from his hip, watched as she raised the blades, and hesitated. She tore his dark thread, years before she was meant to cut it.  

He dropped his thread, retrieving the pale blue string once more. He gripped it and pulled it taut.

Concentrating, he felt himself become intangible, a mist. He seeped into the thread.

A world formed around him.


	2. All of Choice, an Illusion

The web was quiet, vast, and empty. It was space filled only with him and the threads. They called to him, a silent pull in his chest that kept him reaching, always reaching for them. When he touched them they played memories for him, and futures that hadn't yet happened. They kept him from going mad in the silence, in the loneliness. 

As the world formed around him, colours too bright and yet washed out all at once, he found it overwhelming, the noise of it all. He felt pounding behind his eyes, a gentle breeze washing over him that screamed in his ears. He could hear every stalk of corn as it brushed the next, the sounds of the wheat rubbing together, the crunch of the ground beneath heavy boots, the shrill whistle of someone unable to find their tune. He ached with the noise of it, feeling it deep within his bones; but it felt better than the nothingness of the web where sound was a thing of the past.

The world was hot, the breeze cool against him. He reached out one hand, running it over the soft wheat, feeling the warm hum of life beneath his clawed glove.

He started to walk, gliding between the rows, drawn by the glow of a nearby blue thread that danced between the stalks. 

The whistling grew louder, louder, louder, until he was stepping out into a clearing between the fields. He found the source of the thread kneeling to tie his boots, broad back facing him. White headphone cords peeked over the wide shoulders, and relief came to him.

He hadn’t been heard, he realized. But his relief was broken when the source of the thread stood, turning before he could move, and they were face to face. 

Blue eyes widened, alarmed, jaw dropping. 

“Who-?”

“Death,” he gasped out without hesitation, watching fear overtake the thread. 

Pale hands reached up, long fingers tangling in locks of gold. The blue thread wrapped lazily around the source’s wrist, whispering to him.

_ Jack, Jack, Jack. _

“Jack Morrison,” he rasped, stepping forward. Muscles tensed, fear rising. He felt himself smile, though the thread, Jack, couldn't see it hidden behind the bone white mask. “You don't belong here.”

Confusion came next, half formed words and aborted gestures, before Jack could find his voice.

“Wh-what…?”

“These aren't the fields you belong in.”

Blue eyes only grew wider. 

“What… are you?”

“Death itself.”

Jack’s foot slid back, once again making him smile. He wanted to laugh but couldn't. 

_ You can't outrun death. _

He reached out, grasping Jack’s chin, sharp claws pressing into skin. He stared into blue eyes that watched him in return, laced with fear but full of curiosity. It made him let go. 

“Staying here will be the death of you,” he said. “You’re meant for more than being a farm boy.” 

He could practically taste the questions that waited on the tip of Jack’s tongue that remained unvoiced even as he hoped the thread would speak for him, let him hear that warm voice one more time. But instead the thread backed down, suddenly shy and afraid in the face of Death. 

So he let himself melt away in a mist of black, sinking into the cool dirt, disappearing from sight in the shadow of the harvest. 

The thread made sounds, but none became words. 

He was gone before they could.


	3. All of Fate, a Falsehood

He had tried to stay away, interference was not something he was truly allowed to partake in, but escape had been a breath of fresh air to deprived lungs. Before long, the other threads were boring and empty to him as he searched for fulfillment, and simply watching the blue thread of Jack wasn't enough.

He couldn't help it, the need to be involved. He reached into the web, watching the blue thread come to the surface, running a finger over the length until he found what he was looking for: the night before Jack would leave for the army.

He focused and moments later he was once again facing that broad back, watching as Jack worked on packing a bag.

“I know you're there.”

He raised a brow behind his mask, drifting closer, fraying at the edges. He was curious.

“How?”

“You're cold.”

Jack turned to face him, arms loosely crossed. He was examined, sharp blue eyes taking in every detail before pink lips pursed and a question slipped out from between them.

“A mask?”

He lifted a hand, claws clicking against the bone thoughtfully, head tilting ever so slightly.

“A mask,” he agreed, unhelpful. The right words stayed just out of his reach. How was he to explain the mask was there for the thread’s benefit, that what laid behind was something from a nightmare?

He didn't want Jack to be afraid.

He felt himself scowl as Jack’s brow creased.

“Why are you here?”

His own silence felt heavy on his shoulders. He didn't have an answer. Not even when Jack stepped forward, taking away the safety of his space.

_Too close, too close, too close._

He could feel Jack’s breath as it drifted across the surface of his mask, _too warm_. Neither moved, though his fingers twitched in an attempt to curl.

He could have sworn he felt someone’s hand in his. Jack hadn't moved and they were alone.

He was in too deep.

“Are you ready?” he managed to choke out, throat tight and tongue lead.

“Do I die?”

“No,” he answered, _too quick,_ despite the warnings that rose in his ears. He'd said too much. He couldn't tamper, that wasn't his place. “Not yet. Not for years.”

“But I do die, a soldier.”

An image came, of thinning white hair, long smooth scars stretched over a wrinkled face, eyes no longer a cornflower blue but hidden behind a film of milky white. He shook his head to clear it. He didn't want to see.

“Everyone dies. You shouldn't know your death before it comes,” he said, letting himself drift. His own thread, black and frayed, tightened at his waist, tugging.

He was losing his grip. He fought to keep it.

“Are you ready?” he repeated, passing through the thread, moving to the bed. He picked up a picture, running a finger over the glossy surface. It was cool to the touch.

“I leave tomorrow. I have to be.”

The thread joined him, warm at his side. Their arms almost touched. He tried not to shy away.

“You have a family.”

“I'll visit whenever I can.”

A lie. Jack would visit only a handful of times, then never again. For good reason.

He closed the suitcase, sighing once the lock had clicked. He drew back, letting his form begin to slip away, drifting slowly into a fog.

“Forget me, Jack. You have a whole life ahead of you. I shouldn't be here.”

“But you are,” Jack pointed out, trying to catch his wrist a moment too late. The thread’s fingers simply passed through.

He held on, even as the web beckoned him back. He had threads to cut, while this one had goodbyes to say.

Jack had a girlfriend, one that would forget to write within a month, or to call within a year.

Jack would barely even notice in the busy nature of his new life, not for the first time.

His hands twitched into fists, bile rising in his throat. Memories bared down on him, making his head pound.

He felt human. _Too human for Death._

So he fled into the cracks in the walls, in the floor, melding into shadows until there was no sign of him left.

The thread cried out after him, hand extended, fingers splayed, eyes wide and alarmed at his absence.

“Wait-!” Jack choked out.

There were footsteps on the stairs, concerned parents coming to check on their precious only child at the sound a shout.

They fussed over Jack, ignoring the protests and reassurances that everything was fine, asking instead if Jack was really sure about going.

Jack’s eyes wandered the room, the parents taking it as a sign of hesitance, but he knew the truth; the thread was looking for him.

He pulled out, retreating back into the safety of the web, gripped by ice and desperation in his chest. His vision swam. He fell back, letting himself drift in the void, the bobbing threads moving him as they wished.

He'd never before felt so alone.


	4. All of Death, Inescapable

There was no fanfare when someone died. It was quiet and ordinary as he gathered strands, skimming them to see where each thread was in life and make his decision before reaching for the scissors hanging from his hip. They were elegant, long and incredibly sharp, the wide flat blades engraved with the visages of Death, heavy in his hand as they cut through the threads with ease.

The clean cut strands drifted from his hands, and that was the end of it. He didn't make mistakes, he didn't feel remorse, but the act made him feel cold. 

Occasionally he would lay back and watch as the threads that had been tangled with the one he cut stagnate, struggle, or surge forward with new purpose. If he was feeling particularly lonely or sympathetic, he'd step in, doing what little he could to help the threads left behind. Sometimes it helped, most of the time it didn't.

But it just reminded him that Death was not comforting. 

He busied himself with his work, watching over the threads, cutting and cultivating, trying to turn his back on the gnawing emptiness he'd opened in himself. 

He blamed Jack.

It was harder to stay detached from it all, and he found himself reaching for Jack’s thread constantly. He found where his own looped Jack’s lazily, dark compared to the soft cornflower blue of the other. 

He held the connection, willing himself into it. 

He glided past gurneys filled with downed soldiers, ignoring moans of pain and cries for help. He'd cut their threads already, and was stepping into their past. So he ignored them, knowing their pain would come to an end soon. 

He passed rooms where partitions were set up, soldiers behind it with nurses administering shots, giving them drugs that would kill off many. 

A few shivered as he went by, the sheets rustling ever so slightly, eyes subconsciously following him even though he knew they couldn't see him.

After all, he wasn't there for them.

At the end of one bed he stopped, waiting until the thread atop it stirred. Blue eyes opened, widening then softening. The thread glanced around then, upon being satisfied they were alone, cracked a smile. 

“You're back.”

He tilted his head. “I can't stay away.”

The smile grew cheeky. “Does that mean I die soon?”

He rolled his eyes, smiling. “You have a morbid sense of humour,  _ Jack. _ ”

“I keep getting visited by Death himself. I'm allowed to be morbid.”

Jack’s voice was rough, skin pale and washed out, face thin and hollow from the most recent dose of super soldier serum they’d pumped him full of. The thread looked worse than he'd ever remembered. 

“You’ll be fine,” he found himself saying. He could picture Jack twenty years from now, body filled out, skin healthy, eyes bright and full of life. 

He vanished when they heard the squeal of wheels, drifting off to the shadows to watch as a second bed was brought in beside Jack’s. The occupant glowered at everything, a thread as black as night wrapped snugly around a dark wrist. 

He looked down to his own wrist to confirm what he already knew. Their threads were the same. 

* * *

He’d joined the army before Jack had. It was the perfect outlet for pent up restless energy because at the end of each day his body was so tired it dragged his mind down with it. He aimed to make a career out of it; he didn't see the point in settling down to slog through each day that was rendered the same by very lifestyle having a family required. He was good at shooting, at fighting, at strategizing and keeping himself alive.

He had practice after all, being the kid that stirred up trouble wherever he went. He was the problem child, and knowing that was what made him thrive. The perfect opposite to pearling white John “Jack” Morrison who he met a handful of years after signing up. 

John “Jack” Morrison who hadn't outgrown his baby-face or filled out his uniform quite right. 

They’d hated each other from the moment they locked eyes.

* * *

“They enlisting kids now?” his past self snarled, all bark and no bite.

From his hiding place in the air around them, he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

“I didn't know they ever enlisted rabid dogs,” Jack said back, playful in the face of his anger. “What's your name?”

A beat passed before the answer was offered: “Reyes, Gabriel.”

Jack reached across the gap caught his hand, giving it a squeeze. “John Morrison, but you can call me Jack.” 

He sank back into the cracks and let go, still able to see the way he'd smiled faintly at Jack, disarmed right from the start by the charming smile Jack used as his greatest weapon.

If he focused enough, he could feel the race of a heart that no longer beat just thinking of that damned smile.

He struck out with a roar, pain unbearable, claws snagging on innocent strings that cut jaggedly under his blind, angry touch. Injustices, he'd realize later, the deaths too sudden, too unexpected, the ones that just  _ didn't make sense. _

Floating away on his back, further into the void that always felt limitless but he was beginning to feel wasn't, he felt that pain in his chest grow. 

Memories rushed to the forefront of his mind, brought on by the bitter reminder that he'd been  _ alive _ once, staining his thoughts the red of blood. He'd watched Jack fade once, watched him age and wither once, watched him die once many many years ago.

He wondered how long it had been since Jack Morrison, the man of gold, was buried in a pile of rubble after an explosion that had rocked the world to its core, leaving him and countless others as nothing but legends and ghosts. 

That had been the night his own life ended. That was the night Death visited him, face twisted in anguish as she stood by his broken body, beautiful scissors poised to see a string, his string, the first he ever saw, when her hand trembled and she made the decision to change his fate. 

She saved him from living in a world without Jack. 

He could save Jack from dying at all.

After all, Death does have the final say.


	5. All of Trust, a Tragedy

His memories were shattered glass, too clear and sharp enough to draw blood. They filled every inch of his mind, bleeding into every thought, filling him to the brim with pain. He saw his previous loss of memories a blessing, for having them was a burden too heavy for him to bare. He wanted what he could have no longer; he had been stripped of that privilege the moment he’d become this…  _ thing _ . 

His lips throbbed with stolen, forgotten kisses. His skin burned where fingers had once ghosted across it tenderly. His hips ached from lost times where he had been on top and needy hands had gripped him there. 

He hurt, knowing each and every one of the blessings and curses that had come from one Jack Morrison had been mercilessly torn from him the second Death had intervened. 

But the worst pain of all was knowing that he wasn’t the only soul she claimed that day.

Death had rules, and for good reason. Death was to tend to the strings, to cut away the dead and dying so the living could remain and thrive. Death was to view from afar, stepping in only when absolutely necessary. 

Death was  _ not  _ to interfere with the lives of the innocent, nor cut too soon or too late, nor were they to spare freely without consequence. 

She had broken the rules that night, when the air was hot and thick with smoke, smudging gray into the midnight sky. She had stepped outside her bounds, kneeling at his side, long white hair falling so it pooled alongside the blood pouring from his chest. She reached out, touch soft despite the callouses marring her palms from wielding the scissors for so long. She gifted him sight, letting him see the thread of life that he was as she lifted it into place between the blades, her eyes locked with his as he struggled pitifully for a breath he couldn't hold. 

He had been afraid that night, engulfed in pain that burned and buzzed in his ears like angry hornets. He knew he was dying; black tainted the edges of his vision, cold overtaking numb hands and feet, chest barely rising as his thoughts began to slow. 

When she'd arrived, he had felt something akin to relief stirring in his punctured chest. She didn't look anything like he'd expected: she was beautiful, old and soft and sweet, with tired eyes that promised safety and a welcoming smile that opened her face. She was small, kneeling there beside him, her slim shoulders hunched. 

As she lifted the glowing thread where it was anchored to his wrist, that relief grew overwhelming and bright, and he childishly begged her in his heart to cut it; he was tired of the pain, to die would be a mercy. 

But then doubt had flickered through her eyes as she searched him more deeply than he'd realized was possible, reaching into his soul for something he couldn't understand. 

And her hands had fallen to her lap amongst strands of white and soft folds of velvety black cloth, his string, as black as her heavy dress, still clutched in her ruined hands. 

“Gabriel,” she’d whispered, the first words he had heard from her. Her voice was haunting and melodic and tempted him closer. “You are special. You have a purpose.”

It was all she had said before taking his string and in a fit of elegant violence had torn his thread in two.

He didn't remember dying, or what it was like to awaken in a void surrounded by all the threads of the world. He just remembered that it was beautiful and that he had rules to follow to maintain that web and to keep it alive. 

And now, so many years later, he was falling victim to the same trap she had: he was changing the rules. 

_ And it was all because of him... _

He searched through the threads, shoving aside any he deemed useless, searching for one of many he’d forgotten. He found it, knotted around others where lives met until it broke off for a long stretch of loneliness, much later reuniting with others. It was the colour of dried blood and he almost thought it felt heavier in his hands than the others.

He sifted through the strand’s life, learning more about the boy than he ever had while living, searching for a time when he knew the boy had a chance of listening. He picked one, forcing himself into it roughly, feeling the strain of his being as he opened his way through too quickly.

He found the boy, the thread of blood, sitting alone in run down diner. Wide brown eyes snapped to him as he formed behind the scratch topped bar the boy was using for cover. 

A gun was raised, three shots went off that passed through his chest harmlessly, leaving trails of smoke in their wake as his body reformed without effort.

He didn't wait, stepping forward and ignoring the startled shout, gripped the lean face too tight. 

Brown eyes shrunk to pinpricks in a sea of white as he leaned in close. 

“Don't move.”

The boy took a small shuddering gasp of a breath, hand frozen tight around the handle of the gun, legs sprawled out awkwardly and back pressed into the uneven cabinets of the bar. 

“Say a word and I'll tear your soul out.”

The sounds of battle picked up just beyond the cracked doors of a bloodied diner. He slowly let go and drew back, scanning for entrances for potential enemies, old habits dusting themselves off in the corners of his mind. 

He felt the boy rise, the heat of his lean body beside him pressed in on him unbearably and he was reminded cruelly of what he lacked. He could feel the boy’s heartbeat and lifeforce. He could feel the lack of his own, in a body made of smoke and misery. 

Drifting away just as the doors blew open in a cloud of shattered plastic, he took on the role of his name. 

Death was not kind to them. He claimed them mercilessly, as the boy’s gun went off behind him. Six of the best soldiers fell, and those that hadn't been shot were consumed by Death, their threads weak and thin beneath the blades of his scissors. 

He knew what happened from a different place, for he’d been outside this once. There was a pause, where dust settled and blood pooled beneath still warm corpses, where one child gathered his wits in the face of actions taken in desperation. Only this time, the boy wasn't alone. 

He turned to face the trembling figure still half crouched behind a counter that had one been a glossy red, stepping forward with boots that crunched over broken tiles. Little puffs of dust drifted up with every step and mixed with the thick black smoke that seeped from him. 

His reflection was clear in the boy’s frightened eyes. The bone white mask was chilling, his black cloak ominous among the smoke. He looked every bit the part, as had the Death before him in her gothic attire and lace. 

He hated it in this moment, as the boy stared at him in abject terror. He brought with him fear, when all he wanted to bring was comfort.

It didn't take effort to recall his name.

“Jesse McCree. I've come to make a deal with you.”

The boy’s adam’s apple bobbed anxiously, thin and bony fingers curled into torn and blood soaked jeans. 

“Wh-what…?”

“I've spared you today,” he said, gesturing to the bodies scattered near the door. “What I want from you is simple.”

He heard heavy boots moving on cracked ground outside the dinner. He was out of time. 

“I'll contact you again soon. For now, don't shoot.”

He vanished as men in blue and black filed in. He watched Jesse drop the gun immediately, hands in the air when he was shouted at, thin chest rattling with barely choked back sobs. 

And there was Jack, with his past self at the blond’s side, who put the child in cuffs and let Gabriel take him away. The others followed his lead, until only Jack remained, those piercing blue eyes searching the room for any sign of him. Jack rubbed an arm absently as if trying to fight off a chill, then turned with a sigh to return to Gabriel’s side.

And then he was alone.

It felt as though Jack’s presence had left a hole in his chest. As he pulled himself together, he started to laugh, shoulders shaking, throat aching. He stepped forward, knees weak, and knelt where Jesse had been standing, hands closing around the gun the boy had dropped. 

Tears dripped down the inside of his mask. He wasn't sure when he'd started to cry. He didn't know that he even could. But the tears were salty and warm as he tucked the pistol into his belt and let himself melt away.

And he wondered for a moment which was bigger: the void of the web, or the void where his heart used to be.


End file.
